I Couldn't Refuse!
by Holly-Batali
Summary: When Shawn is approached by the Mafia to find a leak on the inside, he has to work quick if he doesn't want his 'psychic secret' exposed to the whole of Santa Barbara. But how is he supposed to get anything done when everything becomes a Mafia comedy?
1. Never Ask A Mafia Man to Bring Breakfast

I Couldn't Refuse!  
By Holly-Batali

Disclaimer: I don't own _Psych. _I _wish _I did, but I dont...*sob*

Chapter 1: Never Ask a Mafia Man to Send Up Breakfast

Shawn was _not _a morning person. He was perfectly content to sleep the day away while other people scurried about doing ridiculous things like paperwork, or going over insurance policies. It didn't bother him that he wasn't a morning person; in fact, he liked to consider it a personality trait. Some people knit, some people solved triple homicides. Some people sucked up to their bosses, some people teased overly-irate detectives. Some people were crack-of-dawn people, some were more crack-of-noon kind of people. And consequently, one of the things Shawn hated most was when people woke him too early. Especially when he hadn't gotten to sleep until after one in the morning due to a fratricide case that went _way_ past his bedtime.

So when he heard a crash in his living room at two-thirty in the morning that woke him from a lovely dream involving a mountain of cupcakes and a city of pineapple, Shawn was not a happy camper.

Mumbling irately as he got out of bed, Shawn silently swore to himself that if that was Gus getting him back for the Darth Vader incident from the week before, then God help him he would tell the entire department about the time when Vicky Hornburg's poodle almost gave Gus rabies when they were in the third grade, complete with commentary of the girly screams and the running in terror.

Quietly opening his bedroom door, he peeked out, trying to determine the source of the crashing noise without actually going out of his room. His bed was still beckoning to him with a siren call. _Soft pillows, warm blankets, crisp sheets…_Shawn wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. But those melancholy thoughts were swiftly banished when he heard unfamiliar voices whispering harshly in the front room.

With a sigh, he gave up on getting back to sleep. He was just going to march in there, shake them up a bit, and give them a swift kick in the pants for getting him out of bed so early. _This is just my luck, getting robbed at this hour. This should be a crime! _Shawn thought irately. _Oh, wait, _it is!

Entering his living room in his plaid pajama tops and a grey 'There Is Never Enough Pineapple' t-shirt and running a hand wearily through his tousled hair, Shawn said, "Look, I really don't care who you are, but I'm really tired right now, so I'd appreciate if you'd just get out of here right now so I can get back to bed and—"

The rest of his sentence was cut short by a blow to the back of his head and a black cloth bag being thrown over his head.

It didn't take a genius (though it did help) to realize that he was being abducted. _And I don't even have my fuzzy slippers on! _was his last, indignant thought.

* * *

A/N: I know, I know, it's short. The other chapters are longer, I swear! Please review! I LIVE FOR REVIEWS!


	2. Since When Did My Life Become a Cliche?

I Couldn't Refuse!  
By Holly-Batali

Disclaimer: Again, I DO NOT OWN PSYCH. I really really wish I _did, _but I don't. And I don't own the Mafia either. All I own is...I have no idea.

Chapter 2: Since When Is My Life A Walking Cliché?

Shawn groaned. It was the only thing he was currently capable in his scrambled state. Then again, he assumed he could probably bust out with some _Footloose _or _West Side Story, _but it didn't seem like a very good idea, even by his standards.

"Mr. Spencer, I see you're finally awake."

Internally groaning, Shawn mustered a Herculean bout of strength and opened his eyes. Sure enough, there was the bad guy, short, fat, slick black hair, tailored suit, cigar in hand. _Typical as overripe bananas in a neighborhood Wal-Mart._

"Unfortunately," Shawn quipped in reply. "I'd really rather be back in bed right now, if it's all the same to you."

"My apologies, Mr. Spencer," said the bad guy in a less-than-apologetic voice, walking around a posh desk and sitting in the tall, plush chair behind it. "I'm afraid my men were somewhat…overzealous, shall we say, in bringing you here this morning."

"Overzealous," repeated Shawn in a disbelieving tone. "Yeah, not quite the word I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of 'nefarious', or possibly 'murderous'. They have more of a ring to them."

Bad Guy chuckled. "Yes, I can imagine." He took out a cigar and offered it to Shawn. "Cigar, Mr. Spencer?"

Shawn wiggled his hands around where they were duct-taped behind him, raising his eyebrows in a do-I-_look_-like-I-can-use-my-hands? expression.

"Ah yes, of course." Bad Guy put away the cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"Any particular reason for cudgel-crewing me at two thirty in the morning?" Shawn asked dryly. "Or did you just want to compliment me on my fabulous hair. If that's the case, I _do _accept fan mail, you know. Or even flower arrangements with a thoughtful card. Perhaps a pineapple."

"I'm afraid not," the pudgy man said, rolling his cigar. "You see, Mr. Spencer, I require your unique services."

"Really," asked Shawn, miffed beyond belief. "Well gee, God forbid that you come by the office and _ask, _Mr. Mob-Boss."

"Mafia."

"Excuse me?"

"It's _Mafia, _not Mob."

"Well, I was close…the spirits don't really do mornings. Or abductions, come to think of it." He sounded collected; _internally_ he was reeling. _Mafia?! What'd I do _now?!

Mafia Man chuckled humorlessly, cold eyes glittering unkindly. "You are a psychic, are you not Mr. Spencer?"

"Well, I _did _just use that 'spirits' reference, so I would hope so, yes, or else I really _do _have voices in my head. And if that's the case, then I'm sorry to say that they don't really like you—"

Shawn grunted in pain as someone's fist collided with the side of his face. Turning to glare at the thug standing next to his chair, Shawn added, "And they don't like _you _either."

"Really, Mr. Spencer, there is no need here for such hostile antics. You can be friendly, or you can be dead."

"Sure thing…_buddy,_" quipped Shawn, keeping an eye on Thuggo.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Mafia Man, rubbing his hands together; Shawn wasn't fooled. This guy meant business, and he would kill him if he didn't go along, he had not doubt of that. _Boy, this day just keeps getting better and better._

"It has come to my attention," said Mafia Man, "that there is a potentially harmful leak in my organization. Any attempts at catching this leak, however, have failed dismally."

"Well, I'm not all that great at mending sinks, so I don't really know why you brought _me _here," said Shawn carefully. This situation wasn't looking too good.

"On the contrary, Mr. Spencer, I hear you're _very _good at fixing leaks." Mafia Man threw down a newspaper on the desk, and Shawn had to strain against his duct-tape bonds, scooting the chair forward to see the headline:

SANTA BARBARA'S FAVORITE PSYCHIC DOES IT AGAIN

SBPD PSYCHIC CONSULTANT SOLVES FRAMED MURDER INSIDE DEPARTMENT

Mentally cursing the Lassie-Drimmer incident for all he was worth, Shawn tried to look aloof.

"Doesn't sound familiar," he said. With an admirable dead-panned expression, Mafia Man flipped over the paper, revealing a photo of a grinning Shawn Spencer (_that handsome devil, _thought Shawn) standing outside the Psych office.

"Not a very good picture. Could be anyone, really." Said Shawn. "Though whoever he is, he has fabulous hair, I will give him that."

Mafia Man chuckled mirthlessly. "Really Mr. Spencer; we're both so much better than this. I want you to find this leak, tell me, and I'll let you go."

"Really, Mr. Mafia Man," said Shawn with a bark of laughter, using the man's own words against him. "We're both so much better than this. You won't let me go either way; you'll probably put a bullet in my brain and toss me off Pier 39. Or possibly 37; they're both very sinister." There was another blow to Shawn's head and he saw stars—and Bugs Bunny, he was pretty sure—for a few moments before his vision returned to normal. "Ever consider heavyweight?" he quipped to Thuggo, glaring in what he hoped was a stoically icy manner.

"Be careful how you speak, Mr. Spencer. You never know when your words will be used against you." Mafia Man went over to a side table and poured himself a glass of what Shawn knew to be gin. "You _will _solve this case if you don't want your secret to be all over Santa Barbara in the evening post."

"What secret? Oh, _whoa, _look, if you're referring to the time when I stole my dad's tackle box for—"

"You're no psychic, Mr. Spencer, that is obvious. We have endless proof of that, proof that I'm certain you don't want anyone else getting a hold of. But if you help me, I'll help you. I can eliminate that evidence, ridding you of any danger of exposure."

Shawn gulped, the room suddenly seeming very stuffy.

"Do we have an accord?" asked Mafia Man.

"Do I really have a choice?" asked Shawn bitterly.

"Oh, we all have a choice, Mr. Spen—"

"Oh save it. Alright, alright. Just spare me the clichés, I beg of you."

Mafia Man chuckled. "Very well, Mr. Spencer. I believe we have a deal."

"If you wanna untie me, we can shake hands, seal the cliché, so to speak," snarked Shawn.

Ignoring him, Mafia Man gestured to Thuggo. "Show Mr. Spencer to the door, please." Out of his peripheral vision, Shawn saw Thuggo nod, then another sack was thrust over his head and his senses were overwhelmed by the pugnant, sickly-sweet scent of chloroform.

_Boy, Dad's gonna _love _this.  
_

* * *

When Shawn came to, he was back in his own bed, in his own apartment, still in his plaid pajama pants and pineapple t-shirt. In fact, he might have considered the whole things one hell of a dream if it weren't for his aching head and ribs and the small splatter of blood on his collar.

Well, that and the crisp business card by the telephone on the nightstand that was just _screaming _Mafia…

…And maybe breakfast.

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A/N: So? What'd you think? Please review!


	3. What Is It With Men and the Godfather?

I Couldn't Refuse!  
By Holly-Batali

Disclaimer: Again, I DO NOT OWN PSYCH. I really really wish I _did, _but I don't. And I don't own the Mafia either. All I own is...I have no idea.

Chapter 3: What Is It With Men And the Godfather?

Shawn arrived to the office late that morning. In fact, by the time he even woke up, it was past eleven.

Cursing his way to the shower, the kitchen, his parking space, and finally, the office, Shawn decided it would be best to keep everything quiet for the time being. The chief would make a production of it, Lassiter would just be happy to have an excuse to shoot someone, Gus would freak, his dad would yell, rant, and try to beat someone up, and Jules would worry.

_Well, that part wouldn't be so bad, _reasoned Shawn as he pulled into his usual spot in front of the Psych office. As he entered the familiar building, he braced himself for the inevitable Gus's Lecture.

"…Have you been Shawn? I was here _three hours ago_! You said you'd be here at nine…"

_Predictable as Bigfoot hosting a luau at Mt. St. Helen's, _Shawn thought dryly. _Speaking of which, I should probably RSVP soon…_

"Are you listening, Shawn?"

"…Hm?" Shawn looked up, noticing the sudden silence more than the pointed question. "What?"

"I _said, _you look awful. Are you alright, Shawn?" Gus looked concerned, and Shawn had a feeling that it might—just might—have to do with the fact that he was staring a the dartboard on the wall with no real purpose and looked like an extra from the set of _Dawn of the Dead. _Or _Shawn of the Dead, _as the case may have been.

_ Well, _he reasoned, _an extra with fabulous hair._

"Yeah, dude; I'm fine." Gus looked skeptical, but he didn't comment further and went back to his stack of paperwork. Shawn leaned back in his chair and booted up his computer and opened his email. He would wait until Gus left to do his Mafia research. Just in case.

As he sorted through various correspondences and warnings about library fines, Shawn contemplated letting Gus into the loop. It would be a lot easier to work this case with two people. Shawn was a brilliant detective, but it was Gus who leveled him, who thought of all the things that he didn't. _And you never know when you need that._

He pulled out the business card (which he had absently slipped into the pocket of his jeans and had been fiddling with it all morning) and stared at it.

Nathanial Luci

Quality Mattresses

Manager

(237) 890-6700

The business line confused him. _Mattresses? Really? That's the best the Mafia can come up with?_

_ Oh._

Oh.

Shawn had to stop himself from bursting out laughing (not that that would be an odd occurrence or that Gus would find anything remotely strange about it). _Mafia, _he thought, chuckling. _Hit the mattresses, old man. Hit the mattresses.

* * *

_As soon as Gus left for his other job, Shawn practically leapt at the keyboard of his laptop, opening the internet with greater impatience than when McNab had told him that someone had posted a picture of Lassiter after three days of no coffee (that had been _sooo _worth it. He still had the picture of it tacked to the underside of his desk in the possible event of blackmail).

_Time to find this Mafia Man._

Shawn Googled 'Nathanial Luci' and waited impatiently for the results. Italian, born and raised in San Jose, lawyer of eleven years, from '87 to '98. Apparently there was a bad series of cases at the beginning of '99, something about embezzlement and theft. Luci had lost and slid down the slide of the legal profession face-first. (_Reminds me of when Gus and I used to play 'Stop the Book With Your _Face') After a few failed attempts at regaining his reputation and position, Luci had dropped off the map for a while. Supposedly he was working small-time cases, but Shawn knew enough about crime to know that Luci had gone straight to his connections underground. You couldn't be a lawyer (especially not one as big as Luci had been) and _not _know a few people on the other side.

There wasn't much else there, but Shawn knew (as much as he hated to admit it) that there wasn't much you could glean from Google about underground crime lords. Shawn knew that he didn't have _nearly _enough to even start on this case. No. He needed information from a better source than Google. He needed facts, dates, _names._

He needed to see the chief.

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A/N: So, what'd you think? Review please!


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